


under the tide

by santanico



Category: Almost Human
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Fluff, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2018-01-02 00:17:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/santanico/pseuds/santanico
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s kitchen is overly spacious. The entire house is overly spacious, too many rooms for one man. He doesn’t really remember what it was like to live here before the accident – he always refers to it to himself as the accident. Peaceful, he supposes. There’s a certain amount of peace rewarded to him as he pours a cup of coffee late in the afternoon and watches as Dorian peers down the hall that leads to John’s master bedroom. The curiosity in everything he does makes John ache.</p>
            </blockquote>





	under the tide

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Português brasileiro available: [Sob a Maré](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2555393) by [Rosetta (Melime)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melime/pseuds/Rosetta)



> I watched the pilot. I got emotionally invested. Here I am, a day later. Title from the Chvrches song of the same name.

By the third week, Dorian is simply another pair of hands, something like an attachment except better. John has worked with “synthetics” before – which he always just considered a nice name for “robots”, though he no longer calls them either – but if it’s true that Dorian is as close to human as they come, then he wonders why the DRNs failed in the first place.

Still, it doesn’t take long for John to realize that they failed because most people aren’t interested in having more people. Or almost people, rather.

Dorian is the closest thing to a friend that John has though, and he accepts that. It’s odd at first, maybe because having someone so close to him nearly every waking minute is unnerving in itself. Dorian is quiet when he thinks it’s appropriate, and speaks out when he thinks _that’s_ appropriate. He doesn’t take orders the way John’s previous partners have, and his compassion runs in the forefront.

“D’you wanna come home with me?”

He thinks, as Dorian turns his head in the passenger seat of the car with wide eyes and open mouth, that he’s never seen such a real expression.

“Are…you sure?” Dorian asks, lifting a hand and scratching the back of his head. John glances over and, with a half-smirk, nods.

“Yeah, why not? I trust you.”

He doesn’t, not completely. It’s a lie told with an airy voice, and as soon as it’s spoken, Dorian’s eyes narrow and his lips shut tight.

“Alright, alright,” John mutters, letting out a breath and gripping the steering wheel at the top. He rolls his shoulders and leans back, head thumping quietly against the headrest. “So I don’t actually trust you. You’ve still got a lot to prove, that’s for sure.” John glances at Dorian again. “But that doesn’t mean my offer ain’t sincere, got it? You’re tryin’, so I’ll try too.”

Dorian hums, deep and low, and sits face forward again, hands folded in his lap. John watches the movements from the corner of his eye then refocuses on the road. He sighs then chuckles, remembering pushing the last partner out the door.

Dorian wears a seatbelt. He has good common sense.

-

John’s kitchen is overly spacious. The entire house is overly spacious, too many rooms for one man. He doesn’t really remember what it was like to live here before the accident – he always refers to it to himself as the accident. Peaceful, he supposes. There’s a certain amount of peace rewarded to him as he pours a cup of coffee late in the afternoon and watches as Dorian peers down the hall that leads to John’s master bedroom. The curiosity in everything he does makes John ache.

“You have a nice house,” Dorian says, smiling as he comes back into the kitchen. “A lovely home.”

“You sound like you’re looking up compliments through the Internet in order to make me feel comfortable,” John says, sipping at his coffee. “Just be honest.”

“I don’t really…well, I know what houses can look like. But I don’t know what’s the best look. Does that make sense? Preference is…hard for me to grasp.” Dorian frowns and his eyes trail up to the ceiling. “A tall person would have no problem in this home, however.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Oh, really? Good observation.”

Dorian sighs. “You mock me. I understand. I really don’t know what to say.”

John shrugs. “Can you drink? Eat? Hm. I know the new models can, but they generally don’t.” He shakes his head. “It’s annoying. They watch you as you eat. Like you’re gonna choke yourself. Like you’re some fuckin’ kid.”

Dorian pauses and looks over. “I can. Eat, I mean. It’s part of the development, to make me seem more…” He scrunches his nose, tilts his head to the side – looking for a word, a phrase. “Realistic. Human, as you say. I don’t like to talk about it, the fact that I’m anything. It’s confusing, I think it creates distance. It makes it feel as though…I’m the other.”

John hums. “To me, you are. So you might as well accept that bit. Just like I’m other to you, right?”

“No,” Dorian disagrees, and he steps closer until he’s standing across from John, eyebrows knit together and mouth downturned in a deep frown. “The synthetics, as you call them, aren’t like me. And I’m not like them. My model, as you say, isn’t new. I become unreachable. You don’t look at me like I’m enough, and neither do they. Do you understand? If they could feel, they would feel superiority. Much as you’ve often felt they react to you, they react to me. A sense that logic is, determinately, better. That’s what’s in their programming, and that’s what makes them so helpful, the total contrast from what humans consider humanity. You can see how frustrating that is. It’s frustrating for me as well. And I can’t even figure out why.”

John watches Dorian for a moment. He sips his coffee, remains quiet. “It’s natural, I think. For anyone to feel that way. No one wants to be one-upped, man. It’s rough.”

Dorian is smiling now. “I like when you call me that.”

John rolls his eyes. “Don’t give me a reason not to.”

-

There isn’t a specific way to describe what happens. Dorian is a promise of safety, security. His emotions are just as bright as John’s, and his promise that olive oil would help with John’s leg proves true. Those kinds of suggestion build trust, as much as John can allow.

John initiates the first kiss. They’re sitting together again in the kitchen, and John has only taken two sips of his own beer whereas Dorian hasn’t even touched his. John isn’t sure what he’s doing or why, but he’s curious, and the worst that can happen is that he has to fake the death of another partner. Which is a pretty bad consequence, considering, but –

Dorian only blinks. He smiles, and he’s confused by the look in his eyes, but a hand rests on John’s arm and the quiet between them settles and feels, in that moment, much safer. John looks away, wondering if he can really put behind such an embarrassing mistake, just as Dorian touches his chin and tilts his face upward. Their mouths brush again, Dorian catching John’s bottom lip between his teeth, scraping the skin. He follows that bit up by resting a hand on the back of John’s neck, fingers splayed and then gripping hair. John closes his eyes after a beat, turns slightly and shifts his body to get closer.

Dorian’s kiss burns, but his tongue feels real, his mouth feels real, his lips are soft and slightly raw and chapped. He cards his fingers through John’s hair, then grips again, gently forcing John into a more compromising position of open mouths. John’s pretty sure his feet are firmly planted on the ground but he still feels uneven, no longer composed, and yet there’s a certain amount of safety that comes with the way Dorian manages to press their bodies together. John hasn’t felt safe like this since long before the coma, and he relishes in it, finds his own hands in Dorian’s short hair. One of Dorian’s hands holds John’s left hip, a warm thumb pressing into the dip of bone and skin and muscle through a thin t-shirt.

There can’t be anything more real.

Suddenly, Dorian stands up straight with his hands now on John’s shoulders, keeping him seated. He’s smiling and says, “Sit here. Hold on. I want – I want to try something.”

“Hey,” John says, grabbing Dorian’s arm. He squeezes and Dorian looks at him, tilting his head again and blinking. “…What do you want to try?”

Dorian’s smile spreads into a grin but he doesn’t tug away. “Remember what I said about olive oil? For your leg?”

“Yeah?” John’s missing something, some connecting piece. Probably because nothing about this situation makes sense. His first thought is that Dorian’s going to ask him to take off his jeans and then…oil his joints.

 _Jesus Christ_. John shakes his head. “I’m not letting you lube my synthetic leg. There’s no way that’s happening. Not after –”

Dorian laughs, voice full and bright, and John lets go of his arm. “What the hell are you laughing for?” he says with a glare. “What are you –?” He starts to ask what Dorian’s doing but Dorian’s already reaching into the top cupboard (of course he knows exactly where John stores his olive oil, which would be weird if Dorian was just some regular guy John had just made out with). He unscrews the top of the tall bottle of oil and then sits it on the kitchen table untouched.

Dorian draws in close again with a lopsided smile, and his hands find John’s hips again, his fingers tucking into the belt loops of John’s jeans. John’s breath hitches as Dorian’s right hand works the button of his jeans open, then the zipper. John scrambles to grip the edge of the table, sucking in a sharp breath and biting his lip. Dorian is looking up at him now, crouched over John still sat in the kitchen chair.

“Is this okay?” Dorian asks with a small smirk.

“I – I didn’t –” He finds himself at a complete loss for words, but his cock twitches in his jeans, the thought of being touched by something other than his own lubed up hand become more and more tantalizing. “I didn’t think this is what you were going to suggest.” Dorian grins but doesn’t make a movement. “I…that’s, that’s a yes. Yeah, this is okay. I don’t know.”

Dorian frowns, “Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”

“Very sure,” John manages. 

As soon as John confirms his agreement, Dorian’s hands works fast in pulling his jeans down his hips. Dorian leaves the boxers mostly intact, only shifting the fabric down enough to release John’s cock.

“Relax,” Dorian says, stroking his thumb over the dip of John’s hip again. The gesture is comforting and human. John takes a deep breath and at the very least, he can feel his good leg shaking before the muscles relax. “Good.”

Dorian hasn’t even touched him and John’s already having to force his breaths to come even. Dorian stands up and reaches to the bottle of olive oil on the table, grinning at some kind of cosmic joke as he tips the bottle over, covering his hands.

“You have nice hands.” John curses himself immediately after the admission but Dorian just keeps smiling, looking pleased. After a moment of prep, he wraps his fingers loosely around John’s cock, jacking him off in slow, careful strokes. How Dorian knows exactly how to touch John is another story in itself, and John isn’t sure he even wants to know. Dorian creates a gradual build up, fingers beginning to tighten around John’s cock with every reaction he elicits.

When John gasps, Dorian slides his thumb over the slit of John’s cock. When John lets out a breath, Dorian huffs a hot breath of his own on John’s cock. Always a tease, just enough to make John’s hips lift off the chair. Dorian is on his knees now, both hands working – he holds John down at the hip with his left hand and pumps John’s cock with the other. It’s impressive for John to watch, the absolute concentration in Dorian’s eyes as he reacts to John.

John is able to hold it together until the moment that Dorian finally takes John’s cock in his mouth. It’s unbeatable heat and John’s hips quiver again, a hand in Dorian’s hair again, clenching but not pulling or pushing. His self-control shakes and then finally cracks as Dorian’s tongue swirls over the tip. 

Dorian sucks and John grunts and comes.

John knows he falls back against the chair and curses a couple of times, but when he opens his eyes Dorian is standing up straight and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He’s still smiling though, an almost goofy expression if John had to describe it.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” John says, his voice cracking. “Shit.”

“I’ve never seen you so… loose.” Still pleased, Dorian walks over to the sink and turns on the faucet, washing his hands with John’s own hand soap. He wipes his hands off on a dishtowel that’s there more for show rather than anything else, and then leans his back against the counter. 

“Why do you look so goddamn pleased about that?” John wants his voice to sound gritty but it’s difficult as he tries to shuffle back into his underwear and jeans.

“Hmmm,” Dorian hums, leaning back and tilting his head to stare at the ceiling. “Maybe because I think you could use something to be happy about as well. To relax. You’re so uptight all the time, waiting for someone to cut you down. What? Don’t look at me like that.”

“You’re damn insightful.”

“For a synthetic?”

John bites his lip. “For anyone.”

Dorian’s grin returns, his eyes lighting up. “I hope we can do this again,” he says, “as I work in much the same way as you do. I can’t determine how similarly but by the accounts I’ve accessed it’s a rather simple process.”

“Good,” John says, and it’s stunning how much he means it. “You’re going to say the night, yeah? And you’re not gonna tell anyone?”

Dorian frowns. “Why would I tell anyone? I have manners.”

“Right, sorry.” John rubs his face. “Jesus Christ, you didn’t even touch your beer.”

“I’ll put it back in the refrigerator.”

“I’m going to…brush my teeth. Come to bed with me.”

Dorian narrows his eyes and chuckles. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

John stands up, shifts his weight between his feet and buttons his jeans – he realizes after the fact that he’s just going to be putting on sweats in a couple of minutes, but at least he feels more secure.

John can feel Dorian’s eyes on his back as he walks down the hall towards the bedroom, but nothing can quite change the content feeling resting in his gut. He heads into the bathroom, lightheaded but happy.


End file.
